Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

[Splash_4]

[SIZE="4"] There stands a very reasonable chance they might have turned the Saltire about to look for ensigns BEEDEE, Mender, and Splash. Though it would be a miracle if they are still alive.

Do we survive? All, or just one or two? How did we get in this predicament? And is there an answer to life, the universe, and everything?

I sure hope we survive! And if we don't, are our kilts donated to science or to the great mass of those in bifurcated torture?

(I wonder, does a lowly ensign get life insurance or is this covered by our kilt fund?)


Now to sit back in my favorite recliner and wait for the rest of this wonderful tale.

[Panache]

Panache and the Great Hunt for the Acryli-Beast

A Victorian Tale of Horror told in Chapters

Chapter 1:

When one undertakes an epic adventure there is an unfortunate tendency for one to become so swept up in the momentum of that very enterprise that one’s sense of perspective becomes distorted. We see all phases of our undertaking as grand and epic. In the retrospection our mind’s eye we manufacture some grandiose beginning to our tale. Later we regale our listeners with the momentousness and importance of that moment when the adventure began. In truth, one often is hardly aware that our quest has begun, so innocuous and seemingly innocent the actual moment is that is indeed the start of the most amazing and harrowing of tales. Oddly enough many of these small unassuming moments that are the precursor to the most epic and amazing of stories revolve around Bossa Nova*.

That is the very subject that Mr. Scott Gilmore and I were discussing at a grand kilted soiree in Southern part of our fair State. The band was playing a rendition of Saudade Fez um Samba and I was listening attentively as Scott was explaining the finer points of João Gilberto’s repertoire when he pointed at the dance floor. He remarked, “isn’t that your wife dancing with Iolaus?" Indeed there was the Flame-Haired Celtic Amazon Goddess on the dance floor with a curly haired gentleman doing the samba. “I notice that our favorite kilted charioteer is taking 4 steps per measure instead of 3”, Scott pointed out. “Generally only professional dancers are able to pull that off. Our Iolaus must be quite skilled in Latin dance, or else he must have consumed a goodly amount of Cachaça and is simply moving smoothly to the beat as only the contently inebriated can. Either way he is doing quite well."

“Yes”, I replied somewhat curtly I regarded them with a frown.

Mr. Gilmore inquired if I didn’t appreciate my wife dancing with other gentlemen?

I explained that I would never dream of interfering with her Terpsichorean pursuits and that my displeasure had little to do with jealousy at his skill at samba, being that I myself lack a feel for the Latin dances. (Though it does behoove me to note that my Tango skills are perfectly acceptable, but of course I am referring to Ballroom Tango and not the original Tango Argentino. The Ballroom Tango not falling under the category of Latin Dance but ballroom…hmmm…but perhaps I digress...actually, I feel that I should be frank in confessing that this is most likely not to remain an isolated incident of digression. So Reader Beware! ) I explained that my complaint, jealousy, and irritation at Iolaus stemmed from and was solely concerned with his rather thick mane of curly brown locks. Scott thought on this and thoughtfully rubbed his own smooth scalp. “I concur and shall join you in disapproving of his surfeit of hair.” he concluded.

It was whilst we stood there with our arms crossed and eyebrows raised in disapproval at his follicular impudence that my eye caught the most wondrous glimmer from across the dance floor. Taking a closer look with the aid of my opera glasses I was able to determine that brilliant iridescent shimmer originated from the white fur on a dress sporran. As I watched the well dressed gentlemen wearing this most extraordinary of accessories turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

So captivated I was by this momentary glimpse of this pouch that I stammered my apologies to Mr. Gilmore and excused myself to get a better look of this most intriguing sporran. Scott smiled and said “Nenhum problema, meu amigo. Não se preocupe.” (That was, of course, Portuguese. The English translation being: “No problem, lil' buddy. Please do not allow me to in any way impede your muse“. Or possibly “No problem my sad friend you are off to meet your doom” or maybe “No problem friend, the flaming penguin squawks at midnight” My Portuguese is not quite all that up to snuff. But I digress again. Though to be fair you were warned)

I made my way through the crowd following the slim and dapper dressed gentleman wearing this most wonderful looking sporran. I drew closer and the sporran’s fur only appeared more enticing and marvelous with each step. I finally came up to the gentleman who had stopped a moment to take a glass of champagne from one of the ever-present waiters. Seen close up the qualities of iridescence in the fur were remarkable. It was the whitest of white fur and the very edge of each individual hair shimmered with a rainbow of colors. Reaching out to touch it, I noted the fur was softer that any I had ever encountered before.

My examination was interrupted as owner of the sporran gazed down at me quite sternly and said in a loud voice, “EXCUSE ME! WOULD YOU MIND EXPLAINING WHY YOU ARE FONDLING MY SPORRAN!"

The orchestra abruptly stopped playing and as everyone in the ballroom turned to stare at me (with the gentlemen’s fur sporran still in my hands) I was deeply curious as to exactly how I might extricate myself from this most awkward situation.

To be continued…




* Including the Trojan War, a little known fact is that the "The Girl from Ipanema” was based on the ancient Greek song about Agamemnon’s daughter “The Girl called Iphigenia"